No One Wants a Covetous, Egocentric God That Only Takes
by The Humanized Marionette
Summary: Life and death-who are we to decide which is preferable? What is it about oblivion, nonexistence, that petrifies everything that resides within existence? Is nothing so much worse than the something we've come to know? It's time to decide: should everything continue to be erased, or does reality deserve to be saved?


_Covering half of the world like a beanie made of writhing shadows, night descended upon the hemisphere that provisionally lost the good graces of day. It darkened the sky and chilled the air, causing temperatures to drop dramatically in some areas and almost not at all in others. As if the visible breath of a frost spirit suffused across that half of the world, it became clear what season it was-Winter. There was no doubt in this assumption. And this proved especially true in a city that was built in a land that grew exceptionally chilly during the Winter time. This city, however, was much different from other cities constructed in areas of similar climate. Its difference stemmed from the recent increase in populace, a queer assortment of monsters. Literal monsters. A race of fabled creatures found in children's books or ancient documents regarding the humanity of old. However, these monsters were unlike the ones told in the ancient texts and children's books. Nor did they match the behavior described in old fables and legends-these monsters were not the mindless beings of evil, chaos and destruction that the humans of old spoke of. No, the race of monsters that appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, were benevolent creatures that wished for only peace and understanding. If threatened, they would not raise their hand to strike down or rebuke the aggressor. They'd simply patiently wait for them to finish, kindly greet them, and then bid the one threatening them adieu. That being said, they would protect themselves if someone made an attempt on their life by means of powerful arcane arts, fabled knowledge capable of logic-defying feats seemingly lost to mankind over the many years of the monsters' absence. But they would never use their magic in a hostile manner. Despite wielding the power to seriously harm any human being with said magic, they simply refused to do so. Suffice to say, the entire world was taken aback by these creatures and the horribly inaccurate depiction of their mannerisms they believed to be true for so long._

 _The advent of the race of monsters occurred ten years prior to present day, the twenty-first of January-brought about by their official ambassador. However, their ambassador was no monster. Utterly astonishing mankind, the monster-human ambassador was a female human of eight years, named Frisk. Somehow: The tomboyish girl managed to break an incredibly powerful magical seal keeping the monsters trapped underneath the neighboring mountain, Mt. Ebott, as well as befriending every single member of the race. At first, the governments of the world weren't sure how to react to the bemusing discovery; understandably, it wasn't an easy pill to swallow and the officials couldn't take Frisk seriously. However, they'd quickly learn that underestimating and/or judging the girl by face value was a great mistake. She was incredibly well-educated for a child her age, and thus she was more than able to speak in a way that was on par with even the most charismatic of leaders. Her ability to bring up points, give valid reasons, rebuke others' counter-arguments, and generally act as a diplomatic ambassador far exceeded that of any prodigy before her. In fact, her skill was so great that it caused some country's citizens to question the competence of some of their government's delegates._

 _Despite her role as the monster-human ambassador, the girl was adamant about being treated as an average, everyday girl whenever she wasn't performing her official duties. Additionally, she also demanded that she was given: the time needed to live a normal childhood, to go to a normal school, have normal friends, be able to go to places without a committee of bodyguards following her every move, etc. All in all, Frisk merely wanted to have the chance to have a normal life. And despite the numerous complications with her schedule as a result of her request, she got what she asked for-for the most part._

* * *

A shimmering shaft of light gingerly wafted through the transparent panes of a window, bereft of curtains, with a simple oaken square lattice that looked out towards the rising island of fiery gold. Its lithe, golden fingertips danced about the air in an elegant gesticulation as it spread the warmth the sun wished to share to the surroundings. Then it bathed the disheveled golden sheets, of which seemed split between being on and off the bed, as well as the large, dark pink body pillow hanging half on and half off the head of a bed. But the sheets and pillow were not the only things to be blessed with the warm kisses of the bubbly sunlight; a lengthy, athletic woman was haphazardly sprawled out on the bed. This woman, of eighteen years, was Frisk.

Frisk, in her sleep, lacked the elegant poise one expected of a sleeping woman, her current state much more resembling a disorderly, boorish man. Her long, toned and slender legs were splayed out to form a malformed V as the right veered to one side and fell off the edge of the bed at the midway point of her thigh, bending at the knee in a curious manner to press the top of her foot against the royal blue carpeted floor, and the left seemed to avoid the right like two similarly polarized ends of a pair of magnets, eventually bending at the knee to press the foot against the cool but bumpy brownish-orange wall the side of the bed was pinned to. And her lengthy, toned and slender arms sat in two utterly opposite, random positions. The woman's left arm had its bicep pressed into the exposed valley of her chest, of which could be described as well-endowed, before bending at the elbow and bringing her forearm up and around the left mound, eventually coming to stop as her hand, wrist partially twisted, came to rest on her parted mouth. All while her right arm jutted out beyond the edge of the bed like a wooden plank, elbow and wrist and fingers somewhat drooping as a result of gravity gingerly pulling them downwards. Meanwhile, her upper torso was lying on its side with everything below twisted towards the opposite direction. Suffice to say, the comely woman displayed a distinct lack in grace.

With the light innocuously lying atop her visage and body, the girl stirred in her slumber with a low groan and meek shifting of her body. In a somnolent attempt to block the smiling, lucid rays of the golden island, she vainly slid her hand closer towards her eyes. But, as expected, the mere act of moving her hand about her face further roused her-she effectively woke herself up.

Groggily, the adolescent inched her hand off her face, gently pulling the skin down with it like an elastic band, and reluctantly opened her eyes. She immediately regretted doing so, for the light assaulted her eyes like numerous white-hot needles piercing her eyes. The searing-like pain was comparable to the anguish a drunkard experienced after a long night of hardcore binge drinking when forced to walk around in the daytime without sunglasses. However, unlike said dilemma, what she felt would gradually fade away as her eyes adjusted to the glaringly bright light of daytime once again. So, after adjusting, the woman groggily tore herself from the intoxicating warmth of her disheveled bed's embrace-just what sordid acts had she performed with it last night?-and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her hands twisted and the palms pressed against the bed lazily, fingers splayed out. She sluggishly pushed herself up off the bed and began stretching, enjoying the ecstasy that came from stretching whilst cool air pricked against her half naked body. Then she'd look over towards the source of the radiant light, and her eyesight fell onto the lattice positioned over her bed. Without the throbbing sensation pounding against the back of her eyes, Frisk freely gazed out through the window and beheld the beautiful scenery that laid beyond. Outside: She saw a nearly cloudless, azure sky; she spotted the sun in its early stages of rising; a choir of birds chirping came through the panes of the window, muffled; a butterfly rested gently against the exterior of the window; and a faint breeze seemed to cause the nearby trees and bushes to sway ever so slightly. By all accounts, despite Winter setting in, the day was among the prettier of the week. Then, without much reason, the adolescent girl hopped towards the center of the room, balanced on the ball of her left foot, and began to twirl, both arms extended like the wings of a plane as well as her right leg, around like an old spin top.

After several moments, the whirling motion's resulting disorientation waxed beyond Frisk's limit, and she ended up coming to a stumbling halt as her vision and head reeled in confusion. There was suddenly nine duplicates of everything inside the room, and each duplicate somewhat merged with the others, as well as the original, as they revolved around their origin point. Giggling like a madman and wobbling to and fro, it was inexorable that the inane adolescent would loose her balance and find her rear smacking the floor like two perfervid lovers' lips smashing together in a fervent attempt to express their love for the other. In addition to her rump, the back of the woman's left leg and the side of her right shared in the sharp, stinging pain. But the pain emanating from the nerves in bottom half was incapable of being acknowledged by the giggling mess that was Frisk's mind. However, her boisterous, frivolous diversions were noticed by her roommate.

Sitting atop the surface of her oaken vanity mirror, planted in a terracotta flowerpot, was a golden buttercup with six petals, a long green stem, and two large leaves protruding from the base of his body. His six large golden petals were contracted and covered where his stamens and carpels would reside, if he was a normal plant, and the creature's stem and petals drooped in his sleeping state, bringing his head close to the rim of his pot. But then his stem straightened as he shot up in fright at the sudden drop of weight and his petals flew open, revealing a belying friendly visage contorted with fearful surprise. Then his mien took on, quickly, a familiar disdainful frown as his eyes, shooting daggers at Frisk, narrowed. There were two names for the adolescent's roommate: "Flowey the Flower" a self-appointed title, and his real name of "Asriel Dreemurr"-Frisk was the only one to call him as such.

"Oh," Flowey began, his voice brimming with contempt and abhorrence, "it's _you_."

Drawing the attention of the dizzy woman, she turned to gaze at Flowey with a convivial, radiating happy smile. Her angular eyes glistened in the light, causing the icy azure blue color of her left eye and amber color of her right to almost glow with a jolly radiance. It made the plant recoil and scoff in repugnance of the gesture.

"Don't look at _me_ like that, Frisk-you idiot," he derided scornfully. "Nothing changed yesterday; nothing changed the day before yesterday; nor did anything change before _that_ ; and nothing has changed _to-day_. So stop smiling at me-I cannot comprehend whatever love or happiness you're foolishly trying to project onto me!"

Paying the golden flower's acidic assertions no heed, Frisk shifted about the floor until she was on her hands and knees, and then she began crawling over to the furnishing Flowey resided on. The sudden approach caused the flower to recoil further; he coiled his stem and then sprang up, using the momentum in combination with his minuscule weight to lift the pot up and moved it around, clockwise, a fraction of an inch. Again and again he repeated the same coiling and springing motion, the vegetation's fruitless attempt to bring himself into a proper position to begin retreating from the advancing adolescent.

She eventually drew close enough to the oaken frame of the vanity mirror to pop up and prop herself up on the tabletop with her elbows, her exposed bosom pressing, compressing, into the edge of said piece of furniture. Her jovial, beaming visage kept its gaze centered on Flowey-she couldn't help but giggle at the comedic sight of him desperately trying to get away. With only a lapse of time to enjoy the funny display, Frisk slowly laid her arms on either side of the floral growth's pot and then made an insurmountable hurdle by interlocking her hands. Then she began pulling her hands towards her chest and her arms to her sides, bringing a flailing, hissing Flowey closer and closer until the hardened, ice cold terracotta pot was pressed into the valley of her bosom-her heart resoundingly thumped against the rounded surface. It wasn't long before her fair skin tinted with a faint but noticeable hue of yellow developed an endless field of goosebumps. Then she leaned forward and gingerly pressed the exposed flesh of her collar, her neck, and her face against the stem and leaves and head of the plant, who proceeded to scowl balefully as he wore an appalled countenance.

"Just _what_ do you _think_ you are _doing_?" Flowey questioned incredulously. "Can you _even_ comprehend just how _many_ ways I could _kill you_ right now?"

In response, Frisk nuzzled against the flower lovingly and stated, "No, I cannot..."

"What are you, retarded? Have you already forgot that I-"

"...because you're my best friend," she finished.

Ensuing Frisk's statements was stark silence, as Flowey let his complaints die and he became uncharacteristically passive-he refused to return her embrace, but abstained from parting it. What truly struck home was the jovial, affectionate, and plain loving tone she spoke in. A somber tone flitted into the atmosphere as the light seemed to start filtering through a pane of gray-tinted glass. For a moment, Frisk's beaming visage faltered incredulously-a seldom occurrence that had the power of turning the heads of those close to her if they saw it. But she surreptitiously hid the change in countenance behind a forced, ear-to-ear smiling façade. And after a seemingly endless lapse of time, Flowey piped up once again in a low, grim voice.

"I don't understand a lot of things, Frisk," he began, "but the thing that both bemuses and terrifies me the most is just how much I don't understand _you_..."

Placing a ginger peck against the forehead of the creature, Frisk assured him that he wasn't the only one. She told him that he wasn't alone when he said he couldn't understand her-truly, no one really did, fully, comprehend why she did what she did. And then she released the plant from her grasp, before returning him to where his pot originally sat. Then she used the edge of the oaken tabletop to support her as she lift herself up and onto her feet.

"Welp," Frisk began with a stretch of her legs and back, "how'd you like a glass of warm water, Flowey?"

"That would be satisfactory..." Flowey murmured in response, head still hung down.

"Great-I'll get you some!"

She swiveled around excitedly and began walking, practically skipping, towards the door. But when she turned the handle and opened the entrance and exit to her room, the adolescent turned to give Flowey a wink and a smirk as she uttered, "Don't you be _leafing_ now~!" To which the plant responded with a long, drawn out, deep groan of annoyance.

* * *

Cautiously stepping outside her room, Frisk made sure that neither her footsteps nor the click of the door made an audible sound. She knew that Toriel, her adopted mother, and Papyrus, the younger of the two skeleton brothers currently living with Frisk and Toriel, would have woke up at least an hour earlier than herself, and she definitely wanted to avoid yet another lecture from her mother on the dangers of walking about the house clad in a single article of clothing. Just to make sure, her eyes scrolled down to reaffirm that the white undergarment with pink and red highlights she slipped on before going to bed were still clinging to her pelvis. They were, in fact, there. And the sight of her having not forgotten to wear something before crashing filled her with determination, as well as pride.

Looking up ahead, the adolescent scanned the short hallway connecting to the second floor landing of the two-story house. The illumination from the sparsely installed lights along the ceiling was absent, causing the grayish white, fuzzy carpet to take a darker hue than normal. And shadows coalesced around the few pictures and furnishing located about the landing; however, faint light from downstairs caused some of the darkness edging close to the staircase to retreat from the balustrade. Near where the mouth of the hall opened up to the large opening of the landing was a door that had multicolored, strobing lights spilling out from wherever the dark brown pine door would allow it, as well as a soft current of air that both crawled towards and whooshed out of-Sans' room. And straight across from where she stood was another entrance, closely placed to one of the landing's corner ends, that had a lustrous plaque made of gold with a bit of narration engraved into its reflective surface, ' _YOU LOOK UPON THIS DOOR IN AWE AS A TEAR TRAILS DOWN YOUR EYE, FOR YOU KNOW THAT YOUR JOURNEY IS COMPLETE. YOU'VE FINALLY REACHED THE ROOM OF THE GREAT PAPYRUS!_ ' As pointed out in the plaque's narration, the door led into Papyrus' room. It was clear that Papyrus did not reside within from the distinct lack of noise and soliloquy. Then there was a doorway, as she recalled, leading into the second floor bathroom located on the left wall of the staircase's balustrade.

Frisk stalked to the maw of the hallway, sidling up to the sole corner, and scrupulously surveyed the room beyond. There was no one in sight, the coast seemed clear, and the only light to be found was the faint radiance from the active bulb located near the bottom of the flight. Checking Sans' door a second time, she reaffirmed the unlikelihood of the comedian waking up and leaving his room, before crouching and shuffling towards the bathroom at a snail's pace. She could hear the muffled, distant voices of one skeleton and one goat mom-too preoccupied, it would seem, to randomly venture upstairs. Silently, Frisk couldn't keep herself from pumping her fist in a queer sense of victory. Then she quietly turned the metallic, gold-painted knob of the door and crawled inside, secluding herself in the bathroom. But before she stood up, the adolescent pushed several locks of her disheveled hair behind her right ear and then placed it against the wooden surface. She listened for a second, two seconds, and three seconds, and the only thing to be heard was stark silence.

Satisfied with her successful surreptitious trek: the woman rose up to the tips of her toes, stretched her legs, flicked the light switch, and twirled around to face the quaint bathroom. A small grin graced her visage as her eyes scanned the pristine white top of the sink, and it took little effort to locate the opaque, wide empty glass situated against a crook of the sink's faucet, sedentary against the edge of the basin. She stepped forward and took the glass before messing with the two Hot and Cold knobs of the sink, occasionally checking the temperature until it felt pleasantly tepid as it suffused her fingertips. Then she pushed the cup forward, tilting it towards the faucet's nozzle, and filled it up to the halfway point, before setting the glass aside and closing the flow of water.

Taking the increasingly lukewarm glass in hand, Frisk returned to the door and reached out to turn the handle. However, the circular knob turned, clicked, and the door lethargically creaked open before her hand could make contact. Standing on the other side, posture slouched and pinprick pupils lazily staring forward from within bottomless, empty eye-sockets, was a short, familiar, perpetually smiling, and weary-looking skeleton: dressed in black shorts that came down to his ankles; two white stripes going down the front of both legs, a dark cyan blue hoodie; unzipped and hood left down, over a nondescript, white T-shirt, and a pair of fuzzy grayish blue slippers. He was somewhat rotund, an oxymoron joke, and came up to about Frisk's waist, and his bony visage possessed additional bones that allowed him to express emotions via facial expressions, as well as both visible and hidden add-on's that allowed certain areas of his face to move in ways a normal human skull could not. Two such additional bones were curious rectangle slats with rounded edges that effectively worked as a human's eyebrows, and they lazily drooped down to the sides of either eye socket in a lethargic mien. And it was because of his lackadaisical mien that he displayed next to no surprise when he stumbled upon Frisk, who's eyes were wide and she wore a blanket countenance.

He blinked, using the extra parts of his monstrous anatomy, and kept one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the door handle. This and the accompaniment of silence dragged on for what felt like hours. Then, breaking the idleness, Sans' eyes scrolled up to meet the wide eyed, deadpan stare Frisk kept trained on his bony exterior. His permanent grin seemed to get extra wide as he slowly took his hand off the handle, slowly inserted the hand into the free pocket of his jacket, and carefully leaned against the side of the now ajar slab of wood.

"so..." Sans began, "i take it ya didn't take Toriel's words to heart?"

Frisk laughed nervously in response before diverting her gaze and scratching the back of her neck. Sans' voice was naturally laid back, calm, and quite deep, and the tone in which he spoke always made him out to be incapable of acting seriously, as if he was always on the verge of cracking a joke.

"Are you going to start lecturing me too, Sans?" she inquired nervously.

"nah, i'm too lazy to do that-it takes a lotta effort to think of somethin' like that," he avowed.

She couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief, but was cut short by Sans' clearing his throat. Which befuddled Frisk to no ends, as Sans had no throat to clear or vocal cords to replicate the sound. And, for a moment, it seemed like his smile grew wider.

"that being said, i think i'm owed at least one joke to buy my silence?"

Smiling and shaking her head, one hand covering her eyes, the adolescent could not keep from letting out an incredulous sigh. She knew his brand of humor all too well, and to say she was defenseless against it was an understatement. Despite her lack of readiness for any joke he could come up with, however, she nodded in agreement with his terms and prepared herself as best and quickly as possible for the bad pun about to leave his mouth.

"so," he drawled, "what did one boob say to the other boob?"

Already Frisk could feel herself on the verge of laughing-she could already tell what the punchline was going to be. Composing herself as ably as she could, a skill she picked up while working as an ambassador, the woman managed to get out a half-serious response, "I don't know Sans: What did one boob say to the other boob?"

"well... it said: you're my _breast_ -friend."

The second the joke left his mouth, Frisk could no longer hold her laughter at bay. It started out small, a mere giggle, but then quickly escalated into the cachinnation that she was known to possess. Her laugh was boisterous, causing various areas to shake or sway in response, and endearing to hear, it was full of wonder and capable of instilling a jubilant happiness into those lucky enough to experience it, and it occasionally was interrupted by a cute snort that only a woman could produce. To successfully manage to wrangle out her unique guffawing was like receiving the first place trophy in a comedy competition, as it filled them with an abundance of pride and a profuse sense of accomplishment. Hearing her laugh was among the greatest incentives influencing Sans to always save his best worst jokes and puns for Frisk-it was blatantly clear just how much she enjoyed a good or bad attempt at comedy. Additionally, the way she laughed made it difficult to keep the cup in her hand steady, leading to several small spills, and she forsook trying to use her hand to muffle her laughter to instead use it as a support, against the door frame, to keep herself from turning into a laughing, hysteric mess.

"T-that was so ba-a-ad~!" she cried in-between snorts, voice rife with uncontrollable giggles.

"yup, sure was pal," Sans admitted with a shrug. "anyway, that's enough to keep me quiet-so..."

With a flick of the wrist, the skeleton's magics outlined Frisk in an aura of cyan blue energy, before picking up her body and hovering her over his head and behind him, then gently sat her back down onto her feet. After the obstruction was clear, Sans took the door handle once again and pulled the door behind him as he stepped into the bathroom. But he did not shut it. When the doorway was merely cracked open, the comedian stopped and made one last comment, " _Eye_ didn't see anything, kid." Then the faint clap and click of the door's lock signified that it had finally been closed. And a giggling, hysteric Frisk was left to retreat to her room and gave Flowey the water before either Toriel or Papyrus could come up and investigate the blaring guffawing she emitted. Then she was left with the arduous task of straightening herself up, deciding what to wear, and then attending to her hygiene.

* * *

Frisk kept her gaze centered on her reflection in the vanity mirror as she ran a brush through her luscious locks of hair, a dark chocolate brown, grimacing every time she encountered a knot and was forced to pull through it. Every so often, she'd focus on a specific area of her mane by taking a large locket of locks in her free hand and lightly ran the bristles of the brush through said locket. Then, satisfied with the glossy sheen and its softness, she placed the handle of the hairbrush in her mouth and retrieved a black comb from a drawer below the top of the vanity mirror. She then set the comb aside and started to gingerly run both hands' fingers through the great fall of molten fudge, gently untangling the knots she missed with the hairbrush. Once she was satisfied, the adolescent retrieved a small container of conditioner, specially made for those with sensitive hair, and applied it to her flowing chocolate locks. She then sectioned off her her in to two sides: a left half and right half, each slung over the corresponding shoulder; finally she took up the comb and began tending to the ends of one section, moved up, shifted to the next section, and then finished by attending to the layers of hair protruding from her scalp. Finally, the adolescent girl felt satisfied with the tidiness of her hair and returned every lock to its original placement, then looked to the potted plant, who was staring into his mirror's reflection with an utterly disinterested countenance.

"So?" Frisk asked with a expecting visage and happy smile.

Flowey's dull eyes glanced up at the adolescent and responded, "So, what?"

The woman's cheeks puffed out and she hummed in disappointment, "You know what..." Then she let the air out and interlocked her hands behind her back before returning her vision on her reflection.

"My hair, what do you think of my hair?" she inquired once again.

"Oh, that-what's so important about dead proteins protruding from your scalp? More importantly, why do you care?" Flowey questioned.

"Come on Flowey, can't you just humor me?" Frisk wondered aloud, face still beaming.

"Why do you care?" he stubbornly repeated. "I don't recall you ever taking an interest in fulfilling that which is expected of the female gender role."

Letting her eyes move to Flowey's reflection once again, Frisk's jovial mien quickly ebbed away. Suddenly, her cheerful gaze had become an annoyed leer attempting to bore a hole into where the plant's duplicate resided. And, upon seeing this, the potted flower stiffened and looked away from the mirror.

"Well, I guess it's alright?" he began with a faint quaver in his voice. "It isn't as short as it was when you were in the underground, so I guess it's better? By human standards-I suppose?"

The adolescent would close her eyes and sigh, letting her head loll to the right as she shrugged. She knew that it was the best, kindest answer she'd ever manage to coax out of the floral growth-she'd have to be satisfied with that. Then she took a lock of hair between her thumb and forefinger and brought it up to her face, rolling it back and forth listlessly, as she recalled the short Bob hairstyle she had favored as a child. It was an understatement to say that she greatly missed said hairstyle. But, as she grew up, she noticed that her hair developed a tendency of growing at an exponential rate-the locks of molten chocolate already reached past the small of her back by the time she was fourteen. Additionally, she learned just how tediously futile trying to keep the locks trimmed to her signature behind-the-ears-Bob-cut was; eventually she forsook the act all together and opted to trimming it to the current length, just past her shoulder blades, it was every few months.

Her eyes moved from the locks she held, pinched, between her fingers to her reflection. She crossed her free arm against the peaks of her sizable bosom and propped the elbow of her other arm on the forearm of the left. Then she marginally tilted her head to one side as she gave the mirror's reflection a thorough scrutiny. There was a defined distinctness to her facial features: silky smooth skin, a rounded chin and jawline, cheeks that became more prominent and rounded towards her eyes, a nose that lacked the angular definition and depth of a man's, thin and well-trimmed eyebrows, and full lips with a distinctness to the indent between the upper lip and nose. Curiously, though, her neck hadn't thinned out as much as other girls' necks, but it wasn't thick like men's either. Suffice to say, it was neigh impossible to locate an iota of the design that defined her visage as the tomboyish child she once was. If she hadn't experienced and noticed the gradual changes herself, then perhaps it truly would be impossible to tell that her face hadn't always been as feminine as it currently was. To Frisk, losing that which separated her from the crowd felt akin to losing something precious, like a part of her simply disappeared one day-she'd never be whole again without it.

But life had not been so cruel as to rip from her that which she held dearly. The distinctive features that defined her most as a child remained with her throughout the passage of time: her eyes. Remaining a constant, her eyes were angular and gave the impression that she always had her eyes narrowed. Each detail of the ocular organs were sharp and fierce like the eyes of a predator, midst stalk, waiting to pounce her prey, but then the wild nature gave way to her soft, caring, and affectionate sclera and irises. It'd immediately become apparent that their exterior ferocity were merely a façade to shield the thoughtful, loving person within. They brimmed with the jovial, kindhearted nature of a best friend, the kind of friend that sticks with you through thick and thin-the one that always comes through in the end. Her eyes were special in a way that was hard to put into words-one knew it and understood it, but never comprehended it enough to accurately describe it. If she ever lost her unique eyes, Frisk knew for certain that she'd forget who she was entirely.

Frisk released the strands of dark chocolate hair before moving to her closet, a hop in her step, and she slid open the closet's door to begin perusing the articles of clothing inside. Numerous articles of shirts; different colors and different designs, as well as pants hung on hangers from a oaken rod appended to either end of the open space. In addition to the normal clothing, she possessed costumes and uniforms for clubs and sports, from both past and present. There were several posters stuck to the wall, as well, and each depicted some band or product or movie or etc. that represented a stage in her life. And along the floor were four pairs of footwear, half of which were designed for specific types of weather, and various knickknacks and items related to sports, clubs, etc. Additionally, there was a box labeled 'Socks' in big, blocky letters snugly situated in the left corner of the closet. Without much deliberation, she took out a long-sleeved shirt with her signature colors, blue with purple stripes that went along the sleeves and down to the midriff, a pair of blue jeans, a pair of short white socks, and then used her foot to kick out a pair of gray tennis shoes.

She took the articles of cloth to her bed and placed the pants on top of the blanket, before removing the shirt from the coat hanger and running through the routine of stretching out the fabric around the chestal region. Once complete, she slid in her arms until the article of clothing came to the start of her shoulders, then her hands poked out and reached back to roll up the back of the shirt. Frisk lowered her head and worked her head through the expanded opening, pushing it through the clothing's turtle neck, before wiggling the rest of her torso into the stretched fabric. It seemed to suck in a breath as her graspers worked the article down over her body, especially when she pulled the cloth out and down over the mounds of her bosom. Once the last bit of the shirt was unrolled: the woman saw that, like her others, the turtleneck became taut and caused her chest to become more pronounced, the material strained to remain over her well-endowed chest, and it stopped an inch short of her belly button.

"It was bought recently, too..." Frisk groaned in disappointment.

With the long-sleeved turtleneck dawned, the adolescent returned to and sat down on the soft blanket covering her bed. She'd remove her pants from their hanger, mindlessly flinging it aside, and proceeded to unzip and unbutton the front of the trousers. Then she carefully slipped her legs into the left and right slot before pulling them up over her hips and redoing both the button and zipper, wincing as she felt the metal teeth clip her sensitive skin. Finally, Frisk unrolled the pair of socks, quickly slid them onto her feet, and slipped into her shoes, pulling the appended loop out from where her heel forced it and part of the back inside. Then she approached the vanity mirror and backed up until she could see herself entirely in its reflection.

She began posing in front of the mirror, examining how the fabric of both her pants and turtleneck clung to her body, and breathed out a sigh. The legs of her pants came short of her ankle and the ends of her pelvis' V were visible. Additionally, they seemed to mimic her shirt perfectly in the aspect of making her womanly features more prominent. What she found was what she expected to find, and it made her question why she even agreed to her friend's request to wear the clothes she bought for her. They were clearly meant for a more coquettish girl-not for someone like Frisk.

Flowey, bored with doing nothing, swiveled away from the mirror and let his stem droop back enough for its fibrous skin to touch the rim of his pot, and he stared at Frisk with a dull countenance. "Not that I care, but why are you dressed like a harlot that doesn't know the definition of subtly?" he inquired.

"Well..." she began, eyebrows knit together, "my friend Marie, the one that got into a car accident, decided to buy me some clothes on one of her trips out of the hospital, and she insisted that I try some of them on and show her what I look like in them-this shirt and these pants are the most tame, by the way."

"I didn't need the human's life story, all I asked was why you were dressed like you were," Flowey retorted in a deadpan manner.

"I thought I should tell you anyway-after all, I'm going to be paying her a visit."

"You're leaving?"

Frisk nodded in response as she proceeded to search her room for the small, black leather Remmington wallet she carried with her, eventually finding it tucked underneath the sheets of her bed. Then she slipped it into her left pocket and retrieved a pair of purple silken gloves, which continued the purple color from the last stripe of her sleeves, as well as a black winter jacket. Dawning the newest articles of clothing, Frisk returned to the vanity mirror to scoot both Flowey and a half-full cup of water closer to a spot on the oaken table that was constantly bathed in a golden shower of sunlight. She then took a step back, placed her arms on her hips, arms akimbo, and beamed a large, toothy smile that seemed to dull the sun's radiance dull in comparison to the brightness of her mien.

"Now then-I'm probably going to be out until four, thus I won't be able to water you at the intervals we agreed upon," she began. "So I'm leaving the cup within reach for you to do it yourself, but if you cannot do it yourself, I'm going to let the door remain open just in case. If you need to be watered and can't do it yourself, don't be afraid to call out to someone in the house; I'm sure that at least Sans will be around to help."

The potted plant expressed genuine horror at the thought of being left to the mercy of the insane individuals the adolescent lived with, especially the skeletal comedian. He protested, voice quavering softly, "Y-you're not actually going t-to leave me alone with those i-idiots, are you?!"

"Yup!" she exclaimed as she flung the door open once more.

"W-wait, Frisk, please take m-me with you!"

"I would if I could, but Marie made me promise not to bring you again after the last time." Frisk shrugged helplessly, clearly distraught that one of her friends had a problem with another of her friends. "So you have to stay here."

"F-Frisk, p-please!" Flowey desperately tried to hop closer to the edge-he failed and flailed frantically.

She turned around and gave him an apologetic look, waving to him. "Catch you later Flowey," Frisk called as she twirled about and meandered out of the hall and around the corner with the usual pep in her step. Then she moved to the bathroom to attend to her hygiene: brushing her teeth; flossing and gargling mouth wash, washing her face, cleaning her hands, etc.

* * *

Coursing throughout the house were the short, rapid footfalls of Frisk descending from the second floor, each step cut short by the following step as they strung together to form into a singular discordant noise disturbing the relatively placid abode. It caught the attention of those residing within, and they called out to the source of the quick but light wooden drumbeat.

"Good morning, my child!" exclaimed Toriel, her voice brimming with the aspects a mother's tone exhibited as always.

"YES! GOOD MORNING, HUMAN!" ejaculated Papyrus, his ironically nasally, somewhat high-pitched voice as boisterous as ever. "SEE? I TOLD YOU TORIEL! THE THOUGHT OF SEEING MY SMILING FACE IN THE MORNING WOULD WAKE THE HUMAN!"

"e _ye_ have no doubt that's the case, Pap," Sans commented with a wink, earning himself a loud groan from his sibling.

Striding into the dining room, which was connected to the kitchen on the middle of the left-most wall, Frisk found that the design of the large, spacious room mimicked the style of an old nineties eating room. The floor was made of burnished dark oaken boards, matching the rest of the first floor, with smooth walls painted a light maroon red that contrasted with the stark white skirting board, and several windows providing an abundance of natural lighting lined the wall facing where she entered. Additionally, hanging from rods appended to the walls, beige colored curtains were pushed to either side of each window. And pictures that captured numerous moments in time decorated the walls, each depicting a time or place something memorable or special occurred, as well as various other knickknacks that Toriel found interesting. There were stray furnishings, a majority centered on storing something like books or sitting down, positioned about the walls of the room, and wall-mounted, switched off lights with white and opaque coverings protruded from each corner of the room. Then there was the largest piece of furniture: a large, sandy white, and rectangular table, fit for a small mansion's dining room, with a rustic, burnished finish to its surface positioned in the center of the room. Chairs, a total of eight, of a matching style and design and color were scooted underneath the large wooden slab. And a chandelier-style light with four curved necks, each with its own bulb and opaque covering, suspended from the ceiling directly over the table.

Accommodated by two chairs, each positioned at the left end of the dining room table,was Toriel and Sans, who had Papyrus at his side. Toriel sat in her chair with the posture expected of a queen, as straight as an arrow, with her hands brought together and legs crossed-a loving and motherly mien graced her visage. The slothful skeleton was noticeably slouching in his seat, so much so that his legs, which dangled off the edge with perfect posture, hung off by the middle of his femurs, and Papyrus; the skeleton, the myth, the legend, towered over him with a smiling but annoyed countenance. For Frisk, the scene that almost any human would find bizarre and bemusing was heartwarming and familiar; she came downstairs everyday to find such a moment as the one before her then everyday.

Frisk beamed a happy smile from behind the half-concealment of her scarf and waved to the trio, approaching them.

"How are you Frisk, did Sans keep you entertained before you came down?" Toriel queried with her usual smile.

"I'm fine mom," she answered, "and yes, he did, with his latest material."

Hearing that his brother thought of new bad jokes and puns brought a long, deep sigh past the incisors of Papyrus, which brought a silent chuckle to the proprietor of bad humor, his torso bouncing up and down gently.

"Oh really?" Toriel said with a glance directed towards Sans' direction. "It must have been a very bad pun if it caused you to laugh as boisterously as you did."

Frisk nodded as she grabbed the back of a chair and dragged it with her to sit with her family-in-law. Once sedentary, the adolescent unraveled the long strip of cloth from around her neck, rolled it back up, and placed it onto the exposed wooden surface of the tabletop. She then leaned into her chair, slid down lethargically and caused both her shirt and jacket to pull up; her navel and the small of her back were exposed, and splayed out her legs as they went limp-the woman sat more like a lackadaisical man than a refined woman. Her family, use to her queer idiosyncrasies and curious mannerisms, said nothing in regards to the display.

"HUMAN," Papyrus called, somehow shouting and whispering at the same time, as he approached Frisk in a surreptitious gait. "I HAVE NOTICED THAT YOU ARE WEARING VERY THICK CLOTHING, AND-THROUGH MY AMAZING DEDUCTION SKILLS-HAVE DEDUCED THAT YOU MAY INTEND ON GOING SOMEWHERE!"

Giggling in response, the adolescent reached up to tap the tip of her finger against his bony forehead with a beaming smile. "How astute of you, I expected nothing less from the Great Master Sleuth Papyrus," she stated. And the skeleton's always smiling expression grew bigger as he straightened up and placed his curled left fist against the right breastplate of his battle-body.

"so kiddo, with all the clothes your wearing, ya must be going some _wear_ ," Sans stated with emphasis on the ending of the final word. " _wear_ are you going?"

The proud and content expression and stance Papyrus silently reveled in vanished immediately, as his skeletal visage adopted a considerable degree of exasperation. It only made Sans' smile widen.

"Well..." Frisk began, sitting up in her chair, "do you guys remember Marie?"

"Marie?" Toriel repeated, facial features scrunching up and knitting together in thought.

"YOU MEAN THE REALLY SHORT HUMAN WITH LONG STRANDS OF GOLD COMING OUT OF HER CRANIUM?" Papyrus questioned.

"Yeah, Marie-really pale skin, long curly blond hair, kinda short, and a lot of makeup?"

"i think i remember her, though it's kind of hard to remember all your friends' names, buddy."

"Oh! I remember her now! She is the one who sits next to you in your high school class, yes?"

Frisk snapped her fingers and pointed to Toriel. "Yeah, her."

"NOTHING BAD HAS HAPPENED TO HER, RIGHT?" Papyrus's naturally jovial voice expressed an abundance of worry and a dramatic exaggeration of other emotions, a common occurrence for the monster when he become concerned for something or someone. "OH! PLEASE DO NOT TELL ME THAT SHE HAS... SHE HAS-OH, IT BRINGS TOO MUCH SORROW FOR ME TO EVEN SAY IT OUT LOUD!"

The three witnesses to Papyrus' dramatic, honest flare of emotions brought a collective smile to their faces-experiencing the skeleton's roller-coaster of gestures and emotions as well as the changing tone in his voice were always pleasant. Frisk dismissively waved to the theatrical monster.

"No, no-nothing like that," she reassured.

"OH, THANK GOODNESS..." he said, sighing in relief.

"that said," Sans began with a more serious tone of voice, the pupils once dotting his eye-sockets no longer present. "the girl hasn't gotten worse has she? after the... accident?"

Taking a moment to ponder the inquiry, Frisk recalled the peppy state of mind Marie exhibited the last time she visited. "No, not from what I saw of her last time-it's like it never happened with her," she explained.

"That's very relieving to hear, Frisk," stated Toriel, breathing out a soft, relieved sigh. "I was very worried that she might act differently after having a near-death experience."

"honestly, i'd be more surprised if she became gloomy-hard to keep sadness on you with someone _friskin'_ you for it." Sans winked. "wouldn't ya agree toriel?"

A low and dry hiss emanated from the lip-less Papyrus, a curious noise to hear come from him, as Toriel stifled a fit of laughter.

The taller skeleton turned about and shot daggers in his brother's direction, who made himself busy by whistling an innocent, jaunty tune.

"I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING, BROTHER!" proclaimed Papyrus.

"do you?" Sans asked. "well, at least one of us does."

"TRY AS YOU MIGHT, BROTHER! BUT I SHANT LET YOU BRING MY MOOD DOWN WITH YOUR AWFUL JOKES!"

"come on pap, you're smilin'."

"I AM AND I HATE IT!"

"you got ta find me a little _humerus_ , don't cha pap?"

"STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!"

"come o-o-on pap, it's just-"

"STOP, I KNOW THAT YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE ANOTHER HORRIBLE PUN. I SWEAR, IF I HEAR ONE MORE BAD JOKE LEAVE YOUR MANDIBLE..."

There was a lapse of silence as Papyrus, an accusatory finger outstretched and jabbed in Sans' direction, leered at the comedic skeleton-the distinct but stifled giggles of Toriel could be heard in the background. Frisk glanced at Sans, her attention having been solely focused on the taller brother, and saw, with a smile, a growing grin on the lazy individuals bony visage. Similarly, the eyebrow plates on the histrionic brother's face began to rise and arch to comical heights. She loved these little exchanges between the two skeletal siblings. It always reminded her just how lucky she was to have friends, practically family, as great as the people she met all those years ago. And as the banter went on, one rebuke for each additional joke, she found her chin resting in the palm of her hand, head propped up by her arm, as she watched the scene resume with the continuation of Sans' interrupted pun and Papyrus' exaggerated, indignant grown-the joy it brought her filled her with determination.

After what felt like an eternity of bad puns, jokes, and the aggravated chastising of the siblings, Frisk's gaze meandered over to the antique clock mounted to the wall between the windows of the room. The large hand rested on the six and the small on the nine. She took in a content breath, letting it roll back out as a sigh of joy, before quietly standing up and waving to Toriel. She'd catch it out of her peripherals and reciprocate the parting gesture, knowing full well how long of a delay would manifest if the siblings were interrupted. So the adolescent woman sneaked out of the room, quietly opened and closed the front door, and began the long trek towards the hospital housing Marie.


End file.
